by Lisa Boero
She let out her breath when she reached the garden. Even an eccentric provincial widow knew that wandering around outside her bedchamber in a wrapper and shift was highly irregular. They will say I am a candidate for Bedlam, she thought to herself as she made her way slowly around the yard, the candle flickering dangerously in the faint breeze of the night. There was only a quarter moon in the sky, throwing off barely enough light to see one foot in front of the other.
She reached the back gate and then crouched down, guarding the fragile flame with her cupped hand. The ground in front of the gate was packed smooth by common use and so impervious to tracks or other marks of any sort. Althea set the candle down and moved her hands slowly across the ground’s surface. It felt vaguely damp, but that could be the dew. She lifted a hand to her nose. Nothing but the smell of dirt.
She spied her raven tucked neatly under the bush and held the candle over the poor shrunken body. The light of one small candle wasn’t enough to see the detail she needed for precise measurements. However, the flickering flame did reveal the familiar spiny larvae feeding relentlessly on the bird’s desiccated muscle. Those squirmy creatures would not become the speckled beetles she knew so well from Arthur’s research for at least another month.
Sir Arthur Trent had planned to do a monograph outlining the life cycle of the Dermestes trentatus, but Althea knew that such a monograph would not be sufficient for her own ambitions. If she could only conjure up a more exciting topic. The decay of the raven held interest for her, but as yet her observations had not yielded fundamental truths of any kind. No, she needed something novel and potentially useful to other scientists.
A yawn overtook her, and she sighed, the fatigue of the past several days finally catching up. Her bed had never seemed so enticing. In fact, she was just ready to return to the house when she noticed a short length of rope caught on the bush above the body of her bird. She picked it up. It was a silk cord of some sort, like the kind used for a bellpull, but ripped and frayed at one end. The other end was bound in a tassel. That had not been there the other morning. She picked up the candle and started back to the house, carrying the cord between her fingers.
All of a sudden the gate flew open. Althea ducked back instinctively, nestling her body against the bushes, and quickly snuffed the candle. A figure carrying a lantern emerged from the road. Althea caught enough of the shape in the pale light to tell that it was a man. Probably a servant just returning from some early-morning chore for the great house. But instead of bustling into the house, the man simply set the lantern at his feet and stood, looking up at the sky.
Could it be Cousin John? Althea waited and waited, but the man made no move to leave. Althea felt her strength ebbing as she crouched in the bushes. She looked up. The sky already showed pale streaks of pink. Soon it would be light enough for them to see each other. Althea edged closer to the house, walking silently, slowly, using all her faculties to move like the cat Magistrate Read had called her. She was almost there, almost to the door when she accidentally stepped on a twig. She felt it crack under her foot and winced. She looked over. The man turned. In the half-light of the lantern, she could see his profile. He picked up the lantern and held it in her direction.
“Cousin?” John said.
Althea resolutely stood. “Yes.”
“Lovely morning.”
“Indeed. I should go back.”
“A word of advice, you’ll catch cold dressed like that.”
Althea instinctively pulled the wrapper close. “You’re probably right, but the night was so lovely, and I couldn’t sleep.”
John nodded. “I had the same thought. The dawn is resplendent in her glorious majesty.”
“Goodnight, cousin.”
John looked up at the sky and then back at Althea. “Good morning, Althea.”
She ran back into the house.
After an hour’s sleep, Althea awoke to her usual routine. She partook of a solitary breakfast and then went in search of Mary. But Mary was not to be found anywhere in the house. Althea had taken pains to establish an unusually free and easy discourse with Mr. Mauston over their mutual interest in food, and this relationship gave her access to much of the servants’ gossip. She sought him out next, but none of the servants, including the kitchen staff, had told him anything. However, when Althea finally encountered Mrs. Buxton, she found out why.
“She left the Levanwood employ yesterday,” Buxton said.
“Yesterday?”
“Yes. We felt it best considering the circumstances. Decorum in a household is very important. The rest of the staff were not informed. After everything, the marchioness felt it was best to keep the dismissal as quiet as possible.”
“Do you know where she might have gone?”
“One would assume a register office.”
“Yes, very likely. Was she originally placed with the Levanwood family by a particular office?”
“She was hired from Westminster’s.”
“Thank you.”
Althea returned to her room, lost in thought. Norwich was to come for her at five o’clock to drive in the park, but she had no other fixed plan for the day. Perhaps a little shopping with Jane. She rapped gently on Jane’s door and then walked in. The room was still dark, so Althea pulled open the drapes, letting the bright light of the morning stream in. She heard soft moaning from the curtained bed, so she pulled the curtains aside and stuck her head in. “Jane, you must come with me.”
Jane squinted at her. “Althea? Good heavens, girl, what are you about?”
“No more time for beauty sleep, Jane dear. We must get out to the register offices.”
“Register offices? Whatever for?”
“To find Mary. They’ve turned her off, and we must speak to her. You said you wished to help me.”
Jane sighed wearily. “Unfortunately, I did. But what makes you think Mary was telling the truth about what she saw? And what connection could any of that have with the Richmond Thief?”
“No connection I can think of, but any murder should interest Bow Street.”
“I have no dependence on the ravings of a hysterical servant girl.”
“We will see how hysterical she is when we speak with her.”
But that was not to be, for Mary seemed to have vanished into thin air. Or at the very least, she seemed not to be in need of further employment, for neither Westminster’s nor any of the other register offices had any word of her.
“That is very strange,” Althea said as she climbed up into their carriage. “Perhaps Mary has decided to forgo the register fee and seek employment from the papers.”
“Or she registered under a different name. Do we even know that Mary was her name?”
“No, I suppose not, but one would assume the register office would require some documentation in order to place her.”
“And Westminster’s seems to be the preferred office for the Levanwood household. I heard Bella say that they have a hard time keeping undermaids employed—they always wish to move on to a better position after they are trained,” Jane said.
“These London houses must have a terrible time of it. Why, the servants of Dettamoor Park are all known to us from birth.”
“Before birth,” Jane replied. “Many of their families have worked for the Trent family for several generations.”
“Let us hope that they tell better tales of us than what I hear sometimes of others.”
“Such as?” Jane said.
“The Levanwoods are a strange family. Some give as much trouble as they are able, and some are barely mentioned. Charles, for instance. I have never heard him so much as spoken of. John, on the other hand, causes all sorts of fuss. Seems he stays out till all hours and must have coffee first thing in the morning, before he even washes up.”
“And how did you hear that?”
“A kitchen maid complaining to another just outside the breakfast parlor. Confirmed by a stray comment from Mauston when I spoke at length with
him about the recipe for those honey cakes.”
“Be careful what you listen to. One day they may be talking about you.”
“They already are. You and I are considered fine ladies, by the way,” Althea said.
“Because?”
“We are not forever fancying ourselves ill like Lady Levanwood and requiring tea and biscuits to be brought to our chambers five times a day.”
Jane laughed. “You are incorrigible.”
“The Levanwood household is nothing so much as an anthill. Like the lowly ants, we all have our roles to play.”
“And what is yours?”
“That, my dear Jane, is yet to be determined.”
The carriage came to a halt. “Are we in Grosvenor Square?” Jane said.
“No. Harding Howell in Pall Mall.”
Jane raised her brows.
“Shopping. Come quick, dear, we must hurry and make some trifling purchases else they will all know what we have been about.”
Chapter Eleven
The night of the Norwich ball, Althea dressed with extra care. A new gown from Madame Longet had just arrived that morning—an ivory confection with point lace and pale green and ivory satin ribbons cunningly formed into a garden of roses across the fitted bodice and down the back of the trailing skirt. Although Althea’s status as a widow entitled her to wear some elaborate turban or lace-festooned cap, she had come to realize that such overwrought styles did not suit her and had kept to her usual simplicity, this time in the form of a wide band of the same ribbon flowers placed by Buxton’s expert hands on the crown of her head.
The emerald earrings and bracelet made their appearance while Buxton was still affixing the flowers. Althea snapped the case open. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought they were real.
Buxton clearly did. “How lovely, Lady Trent.”
“They were a present from Sir Arthur, just before he died,” Althea said. In actual fact, Althea had spent more time talking about emeralds than any other subject the last two weeks. She doubted if there was a person in England who did not know that she had emeralds and was to wear them to the Norwich ball.
“Sir Arthur had excellent taste.”
“He did.” Althea affixed first one earring and then the other. Then she held up her wrist for Buxton to do the clasp on the bracelet. “There. Shall I be a success, Mrs. Buxton, do you think?”
Buxton nodded. “The loveliest lady at the ball for sure.”
But Althea wasn’t too sure when she saw the striking collection of people coming up the stairs. “I feel grossly underdressed,” she whispered to Jane, gesturing ahead of her at a tall, shapely woman in a gown made entirely of silver net.
“Nonsense,” Jane replied. “That dress is almost obscene. And she appears to have dampened her petticoats. I never thought to see such sights in England, but I hear that Lamb woman will be here tonight, so we are sure to see another disgraceful show.”
Althea pretended to share Jane’s indignation but really wondered what it would be like to have such a figure and such confidence. Next to a woman like that, Althea was a poor, drab nothing. A sparrow next to a peacock. Although that comparison wasn’t apt given her gender. Still, a small part of her wished nature had given her a more striking carapace. Then she had a delightful idea. She could change her carapace by dressing as an insect for the masquerade ball that Lady Shirling was to give in another month. A butterfly, perhaps, or a delicate-winged moth. She would speak to Madame Longet as soon as possible.
Norwich caught sight of the Levanwood party, and when the receiving line moved enough to place Althea in front of him, he said softly, “Lovely as always, Lady Trent. Sir Arthur’s emeralds look charming.”
“Enough like ambrosia?” she replied.
“Any insect would find you irresistible.”
Jane, who stood close enough to catch Norwich’s reply, looked at Althea strangely, but Althea merely smiled and moved on.
The plan was to mingle, show the fabricated emeralds off as much as possible, and then hope for the best. Norwich had assured her that she would be watched at all times, but by whom and how he wouldn’t say.
Sir Neville had approached the Trent ladies almost as soon as they crossed the threshold and managed to capture Jane’s attention by remarking on the degeneration of morals evident in the dress of the faster society ladies. “Caro Lamb is quite beyond the pale this evening!”
Jane looked eagerly about her and then, spying a woman in a dress that clung to her curves like a second skin, exclaimed, “Aha!”
Althea continued to hover by Lady Levanwood, who immediately sought out Lady Jersey and engaged her in a liberal exchange of ton gossip and a round condemnation of Lady Pickney’s latest bon mot. That proved to be only slightly more entertaining than Jane’s diatribe against muslin gauze and skin-colored chemises. Fortunately, the musicians began to tune their instruments, and Lord Casterleigh seized the opportunity to ask Althea to dance. Other partners followed, and it was well past midnight when Althea, bracelet and earrings still intact, met up with Norwich.
As he led her out on to the floor she remarked, “I fear I have not made myself tempting enough for the Richmond Thief.”
“The night is still young.”
“And what am I to do when he comes?”
“Nothing. Do not fight him. Let him take the jewels, and we will do the rest.”
Althea looked at Norwich, ready to argue, but then thought better of it. If Norwich meant to have his own way, then it was best to let him think he had it. Althea would make up her mind when the time came.
Norwich seemed to sense her mood of resignation. “Patience, Lady Trent. You will have time enough for adventure when the Richmond Thief is caught.”
“And what adventure might that be?”
“One of your own devising, I’m sure. I have heard it said that you have an interest in the Royal Society.”
“That is adventure of a very different sort.”
“But clearly fruitful. And what, pray tell, was the subject of your husband’s scholarship?” Norwich must have made more than casual inquiries.
They took their places.
“Many things, but he was fascinated by insects before he died.”
“And are you equally interested?” Norwich said it lightly, as if in jest.
Althea looked at him. “Yes, I am.”
“But surely such a subject is repulsive to a delicately bred female?”
“You have a very paltry notion of delicately bred females, sir.” And then, because her irritation could not be contained, she proceeded in between turns to describe in detail all of her observations of the insects slowly skeletonizing the raven’s corpse, adding at the end, “So you see, there is justice in the animal world such that the predatory raven eventually becomes the prey.”
Norwich looked at her dumbly for a moment and replied, “I see.”
“You see what, sir?”
“I see that we must find the thief and end this charade as soon as possible.”
Althea gritted her teeth, unaccountably stung by his disgust of her work. “The sooner the better.”
The song ended, and they parted. Althea was engaged to dance by Major Conrad, a fine-looking gentleman in regimentals who seemed to form part of Charles’s particular friends. Then Charles himself appeared to claim a dance and stare dolefully into Althea’s eyes. He ended the number by accidentally treading on the train of her gown and tearing it. This put her all out of patience with the men of her species, so she flitted off to the cloakroom before Charles could utter one more anguished apology.
After getting one of the cloakroom attendants to assist her with the needed repairs, Althea flitted out again, still fizzing with righteous indignation. “I am in no mood for company,” she told herself, and she decided to walk a bit through the hallways of Norwich House until her temper cooled. And in this roundabout way, she found herself suddenly in front of what must be the library. The light from the hall
combined with the flicker of a low flame in the grate illuminated the pale outlines of book-lined walls and a large desk set back underneath a heavily curtained window.
As a fly drawn into the delicate tangle of a spider’s web, Althea’s steps led her inside, across the thick plush of the carpet to the desk. What did Norwich occupy his days with? Clearly not scientific observation. And yet the temptation to see inside his world was too great. She leaned over the desk, examining the papers neatly stacked on the blotter. Letters, but to whom? She couldn’t tell in the faint light. She leaned over farther, then heard a sound behind her—the door, shutting fast.
She whirled around, a scream on her lips, but was too late, for the man had a vicelike grip around her waist and a gloved hand over her mouth. She struggled, but he was clearly too strong for her to repel. She stopped struggling to recoup her forces and give her time to think.
“Remain calm, Lady Trent, and no harm shall come to you,” he whispered in her ear.
It was a strange whisper, like an actor upon the stage. He must be concealing his true voice, she thought.
She nodded and felt the arm about her waist slowly loosen, but he did not let her go. “Now if you promise not to scream, I will remove my hand from your mouth.”
She nodded again, calculating just how far she could run if she did decide to scream, but his arm held her tight.
He removed his hand from her mouth, but instead of letting her go, he turned her in his arms so she faced him. He wore a dark mask of some sort, tied tight around his eyes and down his nose, obscuring his features beyond recognition. The smell of a strong, dark cologne she did not recognize hung in the air.